


An Ordinary Day

by notthefuckingtitanic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 03:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14633247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthefuckingtitanic/pseuds/notthefuckingtitanic
Summary: It was an ordinary day really. The day you dug up the grave they buried you in.





	An Ordinary Day

It was an ordinary day really. The day you dug up the grave they buried you in. What should have been hours of desecrating the grave dirt they so lovingly sprinkled over your grave was over far too soon. The grave was shallower than it had any right to be, most likely a rushed paupers funeral. 

Suddenly you are looking down at the flimsy wooden cover of your coffin. The dirt and mud stained wood stares back at you, accusingly, as if it was all your fault. You are unsure what you will find when you lift up the cover so you simply don't. Not yet. Will there be a body? Perhaps yours, perhaps someone else's. Perhaps it will be empty. 

Either way it'll still be a lie stuffed into a box and wrapped in a blood soaked flag. That flag had rotted away too quickly, slithered away back into the Earth not willing to face it's fate. You sit on the edge of your shallow grave, your booted toes just brushing the lid with every swing. A few more minutes of contemplation is all it takes for the overwhelming curiosity to take over. Your heavy boots thunk onto the lid and as painstakingly slow as possible, you drag the coffin out of the grave and drop it into the dewy grass. Not even a few half hearted swings is all it takes to crumble the flimsy lid. 

You look down on yourself. Your actual self. Your pallid looking corpse dressed in the last sombre suit you wore into battle. One might say you looked like you were just sleeping but you know better. Even now you flinch awake at the sound of a pin dropping. Or the rustle of a knife being unsheathed. So no, you don't look like you're sleeping. You look like you're dead. You are dead. 

Several hesitant moments pass before you can muster up the nerve to touch the waxy looking corpse. Your waxy looking corpse. A cursory glance is all you need to discern the cause of your death, the bloody, torn shirt, the blackened flesh underneath: massive abdominal trauma, commonly known as a massive stab wound. 

You sigh, rubbing an absent-minded hand over the identical mark on your stomach, the only difference is yours is only a scar now that occasionally twinges. Sure you thought the accelerated healing rate was a tad strange, but you had work to do and so, like much else in your life, you simply ignored it to get on with your work. But now you wonder, had you questioned the healing rate, had you insisted you be let back into your old life; would you have to dig up your own grave simply to find answers? 

Perhaps you would be in Portland, having finally retired and moved to be closer to a certain cellist. Or perhaps in Brooklyn, having finally retired and moved to be closer to a certain ex-carnie archer and all round mess. Who knows what the future would've held had you made different decisions. All you know is that you were lied to. Lied to by those you trust dearly, trusted dearly. Of course it is their job to lie, but not to you, never to you.


End file.
